


Settlement

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2019 [29]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games), BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Drama, F/F, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rapture (BioShock), Romance, Sexual Content, Strong Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-24 15:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20360542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Robert and Rosalind stay in (a) Rapture for a time.





	Settlement

They both had their reasons for staying in this particular incarnation of Rapture.  
  
(“For now”, Rosalind remarked.)  
  
For one thing, Rapture had piqued their curiosity; it was not often that one found a community of scientists as experimental and unhindered as they had been.  
  
(“Bets on when one of them will blow themselves into technical non-existence?”  
  
“I don’t think those are the sort of scientists we’re dealing with, brother.”)  
  
On Rosalind’s part, one of those scientists in particular had caught her interest: Brigid Tenenbaum was one of the scientists involved in the production of the Little Sisters, harvesters of ADAM and occupiers of many a nightmare in Rapture. “I _would_ like to know a little more about her research,” Rosalind confessed.  
  
She framed it in scientific terms, and with that usual, cool detachment that she was so famous for, but Robert knew better: Nothing was more interesting to Rosalind than a lady scientist, and one of the many constants between the two of them was their attraction to the same sex.  
  
(“Would that be a constant, or a variable?”  
  
“Constant, of course.”  
  
“I am a woman attracted to women; you are a man attracted to men. Is homosexuality a constant, or would _both_ of us being attracted to women or _both_ of us being attracted to men be the constant?”  
  
“Decent question.”  
  
“Worth some thought.”)  
  
Robert’s motivations for wanting to settle into this version of Rapture were slightly different:  
  
It was one of the few realities where Booker DeWitt and Annabelle DeWitt had not been separated.  
  
[---]  
  
Robert’s conscience was uneasy.  
  
He thought it wouldn’t be so, given that in this particular reality father and daughter had never been parted. Anna was indeed missing a piece of her little finger (Robert could only assume that it was now in Comstock’s possession) but the rest of her was whole and hale and- save for the occasions where she was forced to pull her father’s head out of his ass, or whatever drink he was currently drowning himself in- happy.  
  
That, maybe, was why it sparked guilt in him:  
  
The life that Booker and Anna had now was not perfect- it was not a fairy-tale, not a cute and wholesome little tale of father and daughter against the word- but it was _normal._ It contained all of the tribulations and frustrations that came with family. Booker had clearly dialed back some of his more self-destructive behavior (perhaps nearly selling his infant daughter had been the wake-up call he’d needed) but was not a perfect man; and Anna was not the innocent girl in the tower, nor was she the cold and cynical young woman she’d become before she’d been beaten to death in another Rapture. But they were family, and they were happy.  
  
And it made Robert think of the many, many Bookers, and Annas, and Elizabeths, who had been deprived of this imperfect-yet-happy life that they shared.  
  
Because of him and Rosalind.  
  
So many failures there had been to correct what had been wronged, fix what had been broken; but here, there had been no wronging and no breaking.  
  
A small, terribly guilty part of Robert wanted to ensure that it stayed that way.  
  
[---]  
  
It was easy enough to feign the documentation.  
  
If they were to move around Rapture to the extent that they were planning, it would do to have some light protection against suspicion. As it was, Robert and Rosalind were not reintegrated into any timeline, and so they could not be killed as they had been before; but still, Andrew Ryan was a paranoid man and rumors of strange, red-headed twins that blinked in and out of existence in his city would be enough to send him over the deep end, especially if this Rapture was doomed the way the others were.  
  
Still, he didn’t seem to object to a pair of brilliant physicists joining his collection of mad scientists.  
  
It was curiously pleasant, being restrained to typical human boundaries again. To walk down the street and be seen (and yet unseen) by the inhabitants was a strange sensation. Dressing in the fashion of Rapture, of 1950s America, was curious, though it was less of a change for Robert than it was for Rosalind.  
  
“It’s a little light,” She sniffed, plucking at the fabric and wrinkling her nose. “I almost feel naked.”  
  
“I assure you that you’re not.”  
  
“Still.”  
  
“Throw a blazer on over it if you’re so insecure about it.”  
  
“Not sure the one I have would go with this.”  
  
Robert rolled his eyes; usually Rosalind didn’t engage in trivial matters of fashion. “Well, why don’t you ask _Brigid _for her advice on the matter?”  
  
Rosalind whipped her head towards him, glaring daggers. “Maybe _you_ should have a chat with Sander Cohen and see if he has a space for a comedian in any of his little stage-plays, brother.”  
  
“Touchy, touchy.”  
  
Rosalind hesitated, and then met Robert’s eyes with a pointed, deliberate sort of stare. “And what do _you_ plan on doing in your off-time, Robert?”  
  
Robert met the gaze without flinching. “It sounds like you already have an inkling about what I plan on doing.”  
  
“I think it’s a poor idea.”  
  
“Because?”  
  
“He’s an alcoholic and a thug who once tried to sell his child to square-away his gambling debts.”  
  
“And your object of interest is currently participating in the kidnapping and brainwashing of small girls for the sake of harvesting ADAM from dead people.” Robert responded to her frown with a tight smile. “Don’t get on your high-horse, sister, it’s a bad look and I can knock you down any time I like.”  
  
Rosalind sniffed again.  
  
“Whatever you like, brother.”  
  
[---]  
  
In the day, Robert worked in a lab with Rosalind and other physicists; it was a bit aggravating to work with others harmoniously when it had just been him and his sister together for so long, but he was adjusting.  
  
In the night, Robert took to Booker-watching.  
  
Anna had, in a stroke of irony, taken the precise same occupation that the Anna Robert was most familiar with had taken up upon getting to Rapture: Singing for Sander Cohen. She’d even taken the stage-name ‘Elizabeth Comstock’.  
  
_Constant_, Robert considered, shaking his head.  
  
As Anna- or Elizabeth, as she was known to most everyone but Booker- worked long hours, Booker often found himself alone in the evening.  
  
There was a particular bar that he favored, Fighting McDonagh’s, which was a reasonably upstanding establishment, an improvement on his previous haunts in other realities. His seemed to be staying away from the casinos as well- he wouldn’t be losing any little girls in Sir Prize in this reality, thank Christ. At least Anna was too old to lose now, and hopefully if little Sally came into his sphere of influence things would end differently from the other Rapture.  
  
More often than not, Booker drank alone. He occasionally held amiable conversation with Bill McDonagh, proprietor of the bar, but rarely spoke with anyone else. If he did, it was usually an off-hand conversation about sports or plasmids or something or other, something of little consequence. This was his routine: Work, bar, sleep; work, bar, sleep; work, bar, sleep.  
  
Robert watched from a distance. He didn’t trail Booker whilst he was working, as that could cause quite a bit more trouble if he were consistently noticed, but what he saw of the man in the bar seemed to tell him most of what he needed to know:  
  
Having Anna in his life _had_ inclined him to being a little healthier, a little more stable. Perhaps he had even been scared into cleaning up his act by nearly losing her. But the man had his constants, and a love of drink and a sort of dark melancholy were common to all of the Bookers Robert had seen thus far in his travels. Not shocking, given his service in the military and his time in the Pinkertons.  
  
_Constant, in that the drinking is still around_, Robert thought as he watched from his usual corner. _Variable, in that it doesn’t seem to be the force in his life it once was. Unless, of course, he’s drinking in secret._  
  
At some point, it occurred to Robert that he could walk up and introduce himself. This incarnation of Booker did not know him, had never met him before; it would be curious to see how he would react to Robert as another man rather than a strange apparition blathering on about birds and cages. Maybe they could talk, maybe-  
  
No.  
  
No, no, no.  
  
Robert had already wreaked enough havoc in the man’s life- it was just best to leave well enough alone.  
  
Unless, of course, fate decided otherwise.  
  
[---]  
  
It didn’t take too long before Robert got caught.  
  
In retrospect, perhaps he should have been more careful about watching a man who’d once been a Pinkerton and was currently a Private Detective. In particular he ought to have been more conscious of the fact that he was leaving the bar shortly after Booker was, and taking the same path that he was taking, and that a sharp eye might take notice of the same red-head walking the same path from the same bar every night.  
  
As it was, it didn’t occur to Robert until he was being forced into an alleyway, with a large hand pinning him to the wall by the neck.  
  
“Why,” Booker hissed, leaning right up into Robert’s face with a snarl that might have been frightening if Robert were more physically vulnerable, “have you been following me?”  
  
Robert swallowed, grimacing at how difficult it was. “I wasn’t.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
“I _wasn’t_.”  
  
“_Bullshit_.”  
  
“Can you take your hand off my throat, please? It’s rather hard to talk with it compressing my windpipe.”  
  
Booker glared at him for a moment, but then released his grip. Robert sucked in a breath; he wouldn’t have suffocated if Booker had tried to actually choke him, but it _had_ been uncomfortable and difficult to talk. “Why are you following me?” Booker snapped, keeping himself right in front of Robert to prevent him from taking off.  
  
Robert straightened his tie. “I was not _following_ you,” He said calmly. “I was simply _watching_ you.”  
  
Bad move: Booker’s glare deepened sharply. Robert had forgotten that his tolerance for sly answers and technicalities depended entirely on his mood.  
  
“Which is to say, I was watching you at the bar, not following you home or otherwise stalking you. If you’ve seen me anywhere else, it’s only because Rapture _is_ a relatively small city.”  
  
“Not that small,” Booker grunted, but he did withdraw a little. “Why the hell were you watching me at the bar?”  
  
“Well, now I’m afraid to say.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you might punch me.”  
  
Booker rolled his eyes. “I won’t punch you, just spit it out.”  
  
Robert hummed.  
  
“Well… Why does _anyone_ watch someone at a bar?”  
  
[---]  
  
Booker didn’t punch him.  
  
His eyes had widened, and then he’d shaken his head and walked away.  
  
Robert had gone home vaguely mystified by the encounter, and grateful that Booker hadn’t actually hit him- it would have been apparent that Robert wasn’t capable of being injured if he’d tried.  
  
_Should I go back to the bar tomorrow?_ He wondered as he walked up the stairs to the Olympus Heights flat that he and Rosalind shared. _Or leave it alone?_ It was hard to tell if Booker had simply been too shocked to react, or if he didn’t mind being _noticed_ by another man. In any case, it would be foolish to assume that Booker would react well to seeing him again. Or, maybe he would simply ignore Robert.  
  
Choices, choices.  
  
When he got inside, Rosalind wasn’t alone: She was sitting on the couch with Brigid Tenenbaum, two glasses of wine on the table. They both looked up as Robert walked in. “Evening, brother,” Rosalind greeted calmly. “Nice night out?”  
  
“Lovely,” Robert agreed easily, nodding to them. “But tiring, sister. Good evening, Doctor Tenenbaum.”  
  
“Good night, brother.”  
  
“_Gute nacht, Herr Lutece_.”  
  
Robert paced to his room, shutting the door behind him and collapsing onto his bed. He sighed, wheezing into his pillow.  
  
He really, really wanted to go back to the bar tomorrow.  
  
There was something tantalizing in the fact that Booker didn’t punch him- or otherwise verbally or physically reject the low-key advance. There was possibility in it, and Robert had never been good at leaving possibilities unexplored. That scientific curiosity that had been part of him since he was a small boy begged him to press the subject to its logical conclusion and see what happened.  
  
_You’ve done that before._  
  
_That’s why you’re **here** and not still in **your** Columbia._  
  
Robert grimaced.  
  
Did he even have the _right_ to engage in anything with Booker, no matter how innocent or remote, after all that he’d done to him? Oh, this Booker DeWitt didn’t know him from Adam, but Robert knew dozens of versions of him from so many different realities. He had seen so many terrible futures and situations that the man had ended up in as a result of Robert and Rosalind’s meddling.  
  
_I can, but perhaps I shouldn’t._  
  
_I **can,** but perhaps I shouldn’t._  
  
[---]  
  
“So, you’re here.”  
  
Robert hesitated, finger gripping his glass tightly, but then he looked up at Booker. “Just as I am every night.”  
  
“That you are.” Booker watched him for a moment, and Robert had the distinct impression that he was being Detected: Picked apart, put into categories so that Booker could best deduce why it was that Robert had fixated on him. Maybe he suspected that there was more to Robert’s interest than simple, mild sexual attraction. Had Robert unintentionally given something away in his expression or voice when they’d met the night before?  
  
“Would you like to sit?” Robert asked mildly, scooting aside in the booth. “Plenty of room.”  
  
Booker watched him for a moment longer, and then slowly sat down. The booth itself was curved around a round table, and Booker left a decent bit of space between them. “So.”  
  
“So.”  
  
“You’re English.”  
  
“And you’re American.”  
  
These should have been obvious statements, but Rapture was a community of immigrants from many different backgrounds. “What brought you to Rapture?”  
  
Robert mulled over the answer carefully. “Scientific pursuits. My sister and I are physicists.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“What brought you?”  
  
Booker seemed to be weighing his words twice as carefully as Robert was; he was still suspicious of his motivations. “Thought it might be… Nice. A fresh start for my daughter and I.”  
  
“You have a daughter,” Robert remarked, remembering on the fly that he had to pretend he didn’t know about Elizabeth.  
  
“Yeah, Anna.” Booker’s lip quirked, almost a smile, before frowning. “She goes by ‘Elizabeth Comstock’ right now. Works with Sander Cohen.”  
  
“He’s an odd duck.”  
  
“He’s more than that,” Booker grunted, taking a rather larger gulp of his beer. “But she’s an adult now, I can’t stop her.”  
  
Robert smiled. “Adult, mm? You don’t look so very old.”  
  
“I was young when she was born.” If the compliment landed, Booker gave no sign. Robert would chalk it up to a good poker-face, but he was inclined to believe that he didn’t have one; the Bookers across so many realities wouldn’t be so god-awful at gambling if it was a constant for them. Maybe for this one it was a variable. “What about you?”  
  
“No children. Just myself and my sister- my twin.”  
  
“Twin physicists, huh. That’s- Your nose is bleeding.”  
  
Robert’s vision went blurry for a moment, and then he quickly went for his handkerchief, grumbling when he couldn’t find it. “Damn.”  
  
“That happen often?”  
  
“Occasionally.” The cognitive dissonance was one thing that had stayed even after Fink’s failed assassination attempt. It was far, far milder than what he had experienced after first entering Rosalind’s Columbia, but it did occasionally rear its ugly head and irritate him from time to time.  
  
Especially after contact with Booker.  
  
(“I’m not one-hundred percent convinced it’s cognitive dissonance.”  
  
“What would it be, if not that?”  
  
“Psychosomatic.”)  
  
“Here.”  
  
Booker held out his own handkerchief, and Robert gratefully pressed it to his face, mopping up what little blood was there and grimacing at the sight of the stained fabric. “Thank you, Booker.”  
  
The other man stiffened slightly. “You know my name.”  
  
_Shit._  
  
Robert caught himself quickly, rolling his eyes lightly. “Yes, would you like to know how?”  
  
“How?”  
  
Robert leaned in close and whispered:  
  
“_I asked around_.”  
  
[---]  
  
Slowly, it became a routine for them.  
  
Booker left his office, Robert left the labs, and they would meet at the Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern to drink and talk- or not talk, if the mood struck them and silence seemed appropriate. They progressively developed a quiet companionship in their time together, grew comfortable in one another’s presence.  
  
Well- chances were Booker was slightly more comfortable than Robert. Regardless of how well things seemed to be going, there was always that pressing, niggling sense of _you should not be doing this, you should not be interacting with this man, you ruined his life in so many different realities and you’ll ruin it in this one as well._ That he did not have the right to be so friendly with Booker after everything he’d done was a constant, aggravating, needling thing in the back of his head.  
  
Rosalind didn’t seem to approve either. Nearly as routine as Robert’s nights with Booker was the arched eyebrow she greeted him with when he returned home, the veiled greeting that effectively conveyed ‘I know where you were and I know who you were with.’ “Where do you see this going, Robert?” She asked him one night before he could retreat to his bedroom. “Where _exactly_ do you see this thread of time leading you to?”  
  
Robert didn’t know.  
  
Not for certain.  
  
There was one thread that suggested they would continue on with this amiable relationship they’d developed, a low-key friendship with good conversation and a sense of comfort around one another.  
  
There was another thread where Robert gently tapered off contact until he and Booker were strangers again; disappointing, but it would alleviate the shame he felt for his part in the other Bookers’ miseries across time and space.  
  
Then there was the _third_ option.  
  
On this particular night, Booker was late. Robert waited patiently, anxiety inching upwards the longer he went without showing. But eventually Booker stumbled in with a black eye and a limp, placing his order at the bar before moving over to his usual spot with Robert; when he did he was carrying not only a glass, but an ice-pack pressed against his eye courtesy of the bartender.  
  
“What happened?” Robert asked as he sat down.  
  
“Won a fight.”  
  
“I’d hate to see the other guy.”  
  
Booker smirked slightly. “You would.”  
  
“Were you working, or did someone just dislike the cut of your jib?”  
  
“Work.”  
  
“Anything interesting?”  
  
Booker shrugged lightly. “Not especially.”  
  
That was a bold-faced lie, but Booker was often cagey about his work. Discretion was part of the job-description, after all. “What about your leg? You were limping.”  
  
“Ah, the bastard smacked it with a wrench. Hurt like a mother, but I’ve had worse.”  
  
“I’m sure you have.”  
  
They were mostly quiet that night, with Robert watching smaller, lighter bruises forming over Booker’s cheek and jaw. _Poor thing_, he thought as Booker occasionally winced and readjusted the ice-pack on his face. Silly, really: He’d seen far, far worse happen to the Bookers of his previous adventures.  
  
Still…  
  
_Why should Rosalind be the only one to have some fun?_  
  
They left Fighting McDonagh’s a little earlier than their usual, and as usual Robert and Booker went off in the same direction. And when they went to part, Robert leaned in and pressed a light kiss to Booker’s lips.  
  
When he pulled back, Booker’s expression was inscrutable. “Why’d you do that?”  
  
Robert shrugged. “Felt like it.” He reached up and gently wiped a drop of condensation from the ice-pack away from Booker’s eye, careful not to press too hard.  
  
Booker watched him silently, and something a little _heated_ entered his gaze. After a moment, he leaned down and kissed Robert, hesitantly and experimentally.  
  
_Oh, I am **so** glad he hasn’t turned into Comstock,_ Robert thought as he returned the kiss, a hand drifting to rest on Booker’s hip. The old, repressed bastard would never have participated in this sort of thing.  
  
(_Because you enabled him to be a religious prophet, you hypocrite._)  
  
Robert cringed a little, and he parted from Booker. The other man didn’t seem to notice that flash of discomfort, of guilt: He seemed brighter than he’d been all night.  
  
“You want to go, uh- you wanna get a room?”  
  
[---]  
  
_What was I thinking?_  
  
Robert’s heart was pounding as Booker accepted the key to the room.  
  
They were at a small motel in Fort Frolic, an establishment that didn’t seem interested in asking questions about two people renting a room together- even if they were men. Rapture was infinitely more _open_ in this respect than Columbia was; but then, the Catholic Church was more open than Columbia was. There were no laws targeting homosexuality in Rapture, just the usual common-sense ones about not flagrantly performing acts in public that could legally be classified as dental or gynecological procedures.  
  
So it wasn’t at all that Robert was afraid of being outed, something that had been a pervasive fear during his few fumbles with other boys in school. And it wasn’t that he was afraid that someone might jump them (the idea was laughable; Booker wasn’t the sort of man one jumped without a damn good reason, especially considering the badge of honor he was currently sporting on his eye).  
  
No, he was afraid of the line he was in the process of crossing.  
  
_Maybe Rosalind was right, maybe this is a bad idea,_ Robert considered as they walked up the stairs. _Maybe I shouldn’t be getting so close. What am I even thinking? _  
  
(He was thinking that Booker DeWitt cut a nice form in that suit, and Robert had idly dreamed about taking him to bed for a long while now.)  
  
Booker unlocked the door to their room and stepped inside, Robert following closely after. By now his chest was starting to hurt, and taking his jacket off was more difficult than it ought to have been. “Huh, Arcadia Merlot.” Robert turned and saw Booker holding a bottle of wine that had been artfully placed on the nightstand. “And it’s _new_. Someone decided to up their game.”  
  
Robert smiled weakly. “You come here often?”  
  
Booker snorted, rolling the bottle between his hands. “Half my job is finding cheating spouses. I get around this way a _lot_.” He lifted the wine. “You want some?” Robert wasn’t a big drinker- the beer he had at Fighting McDonagh’s was his typical indulgence for the day, save for the odd glass of wine at dinner- but he eagerly accepted the wine when Booker poured it and downed most of it in one gulp. Booker chuckled, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking a much smaller sip. “Nervous?”  
  
Robert sighed and shut his eyes, a little dizzy; he shouldn’t have swallowed the wine all in one go. He took a seat beside Booker. “It’s been a while.”  
  
“Same here.”  
  
Maybe it was Robert’s initial nervousness, but Booker did not make the first move. Indeed, he seemed to be delaying and waiting for Robert to do it, perhaps to ensure that he wasn’t having second thoughts. Eventually Robert plucked up enough courage to kiss Booker again, when his glass was nearly empty. Now ensconced in privacy, the kiss evolved much more quickly: Robert found himself under Booker, pleasantly secure under his weight and warmth.  
  
One of Booker’s hands slipped between them and grasped at Robert through his trousers, and Robert made a low sound. God, but it really had been too long; he’d just about forgotten what it was to be touched this way. And Booker was a damn sight more experienced than the boys Robert had known at University: Robert was overwhelmed by the hand between his legs and the mouth on his neck, far too much sensory input for someone who’d had _no_ sensory input for so long.  
  
“Give me a second,” Booker said, panting as he pulled back. “Fuck. It’s been a while- I’m getting a little too hot too quick.”  
  
“Much the same here,” Robert whispered. Maybe it was the wine, maybe he’d simply acclimated, but “Christ. Can I take your shirt off?”  
  
“Only if yours comes off first.”  
  
“If you insist, Mr. DeWitt.”  
  
[---]  
  
They spent the night in the motel.  
  
By the time Robert took the walk of shame home the next day, he was still rather exhausted. Altogether he’d gotten about four hours of sleep, not all of it consistent: Once or twice, he and Booker had half-woken up and rubbed up against one another and then _whoops_, time to roll over and fuck like rabbits again.  
  
It was one of the best nights that Robert had had in a long time. It occurred to him that perhaps he could force his conscience to switch gears and see his relationship with Booker not as an offense, given his previous sins, but an atonement: For all that he’d done to wreak havoc for the dozens of other Booker DeWitts across time and space, he was doing his part to keep this one happy.  
  
That was more than the man had had in most of the other realities.  
  
Still, duty called. “I have to go,” Robert had whispered when the clock struck five AM. “Rosalind will be expecting me at the lab.”  
  
“Hmm.” Booker had slung an arm around his back and tugged him down again, eyes shut as he kissed him sloppily. “Gonna be at McDonagh’s again tonight?”  
  
“Assuming my sister doesn’t murder me, or I haven’t fallen asleep on the wrong platform and beamed myself to another reality, then yes, I’ll be there.”  
  
Booker had opened one eye. “The fuck?”  
  
Robert had smirked. “I’ll be there. I’ll give you a physics lesson.”  
  
Now he crept into the Olympus Heights apartment carefully. He was cutting it close, this was about the time that Rosalind tended to get up, but maybe if he was quick and quiet Robert would be able to sneak into his bedroom and feign having been there all (or at least most) of the night when she actually did wake up.  
  
Robert crept to his door, quiet as could be-  
  
-and of course, Rosalind’s door opened just that moment.  
  
At once, Robert turned to face his sister, and Rosalind- surprised by his presence- did not shut the door to her bedroom.  
  
Inside, partly visible through the crack, Robert saw a mess of dark hair on one of the pillows, a human-shaped lump beneath the sheets. Rosalind saw him looking and quickly shut the door behind her, cheeks going _ever_-so-slightly pink.  
  
Robert raised an eyebrow at her.  
  
Rosalind said nothing.  
  
Robert sniffed. “Stop complaining about Booker, and I won’t make any mention about this in the future.”  
  
Rosalind’s eyes narrowed as she weighed her options. “Fine. But I still don’t like it.”  
  
“You don’t have to. Just leave it alone, sister.”  
  
Rosalind sniffed as well. “Fine, brother.”  
  
“I’ll meet you shortly.”  
  
“No rush.”  
  
Robert stepped into his room and shut the door before permitting himself a small smirk. It was rare that he managed to get one over on Rosalind, by far the more forceful of the two. Still, some hills were worth dying on.  
_  
Or **not** dying on, as it were._  
  
Perhaps if they played their cards right, this Rapture could have an entirely different destiny than the one they’d seen in other realities.  
  
For now, Robert would be grateful for a taste of normality.  
  
-End

**Author's Note:**

> ...Yeah, this might end up a series. Lotsa possibilities in here.


End file.
